Chapter 3: The Dance of Spear and Arrow

The longboat slowly pulled away from the shore, leaving a faint trail on the mirror-like surface of the bay. The tension aboard the small vessel could be cut with a knife. Every muscle in the rowers was taut, every gaze fixed on the dark figures frozen on the white sand. Flora stood in the stern, her eyes never leaving the natives. "Whisper" was in her hand, but for now, it was lowered. She didn't want to provoke. But she had no intention of being caught off guard either.

The islanders didn't move. They just stood and watched. Their dark silhouettes against the bright green of the jungle looked ominous. The sun, rising higher, beat down on Flora, making her squint. She could make out the glint of their eyes—wild, wary, like those of cornered beasts. There was nothing friendly in their postures. Only a silent threat and primal fury.

"What's the plan, Captain?" Brenn whispered without turning his head. His hand gripped the hilt of his sword so tightly his knuckles turned white. "These fellows don't look like they're about to roll out a red carpet of Golden Bears for us."

"Nothing, for now," Flora replied just as quietly. "We return to the Sea Wanderer. We discuss. We need information. Who are they? How many? Are they as dangerous as they look?"

"I think the answer to that last question is obvious," Son grumbled. His pirate nature craved a fight, but he was smart enough to know that charging headlong at an unknown enemy on their own territory was foolish. "I've seen their kind on the southern isles. They live in their jungles like wild beasts. They don't like outsiders. First thing they do is poke you with a spear. But these are just the beginning. The only thing worse than savages are the women from the Sisterhood of the Serpent. They say there are islands to the south where no man should tread. They welcome men for one thing only—to continue their line. Once the deed is done, you're shown the door and told not to show your face again. They keep the girls, but if a boy is born, they bring him to the Shattered Coast after seven years or so and hand him over. 'Take yours,' they say, 'we have no need of him.' And their ships—fast as the serpents themselves, you can't catch them."

"Your tales are chilling, Son, but I'm talking about those on the shore. Maybe they're just afraid," suggested Masefeg in his deep bass. He was the most taciturn, but not the dumbest among them. "We're strangers to them too. We arrived on a big ship, with weapons. Who knows what they think of us?"

Flora remained silent. Masefeg could be right. Fear often breeds aggression. She knew that from personal experience. But her intuition told her it wasn't just fear. There was something else in the eyes of these natives. Some hidden malice, almost hatred.

The longboat finally reached the Sea Wanderer. Flora and her companions were quickly hoisted aboard. The crew, huddled by the bulwark, met them with anxious questions.

"What is it, Captain? Who are they?""Did you see their spears? Sharp as a razor!""Did they attack?"

Flora raised a hand, calling for silence. "Calm down," she said in a firm voice. "They are the local inhabitants. Apparently, not very hospitable. But they haven't attacked yet. We've just... made an acquaintance from a distance."

She quickly briefed the crew: about the strange skull, the mysterious marks on the trees, and the hostile appearance of the natives.

"So, the island is inhabited," concluded old Turville, stroking his grey beard. "And its inhabitants are not happy to see guests. This is bad. Very bad. My grandfather always said: if the natives greet you with spears and not gifts, it's better to run while you're still in one piece."

"We didn't sail for over a month just to run at the first sign of danger, Turville," Flora countered. "We need fresh water. We need to replenish our provisions. And I need to know what this island is. What it hides." She didn't add that the signs on the tree had strengthened her main hope.

She scanned her crew. Their faces were serious, focused. There was fear, but there was also greed. They still believed in treasure. And she couldn't disappoint them.

"Brenn, Son, Masefeg, Turville—to my cabin. We'll discuss a plan of action. The rest of you—strengthen the watch on the shore. Keep your weapons ready. And no provocations. We will not attack first. But if they attack us—we will respond with all our might."

The captain's cabin on the Sea Wanderer was small and ascetic. A wide bunk covered with the pelt of a snow leopard from her native Northern Hall. A dark wood desk cluttered with maps, an astrolabe, and navigation dividers. On the wall hung the Disleyvane sigil, a carved raven. And a shelf with a few books rescued from the fire.

Flora sat at the desk. Her officers arranged themselves on a narrow bench and a chest.

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"Well, gentlemen," Flora began, spreading a hastily made sketch of the bay on the table. "We have a problem. The island we've been searching for so long has turned out to be inhabited. And its residents have not shown us any friendliness. What are your suggestions?"

"The suggestion is simple, Captain," Son spoke first. "We make a landing party. Twenty men, well-armed. We sweep the jungle. Find their village. Show them who's in charge. Take what we need—water, food, maybe a few shiny trinkets from their temple..."

"Son!" Flora cut him off sharply. Her voice became quiet, but in that quietness was an undisguised threat. "We are not pirates. And we are not robbers. If you've forgotten, I'll remind you. We are explorers. And we will behave in a civilized manner. As much as possible."

Son was flustered under her cold gaze. "I was just... old habits, Captain. A habit."

"Get out of it," Flora snapped. "Such methods won't work here. We don't know how many of them there are. We don't know their weapons, their tactics. And we don't know if they have any unpleasant surprises in these jungles—poisonous snakes, traps, diseases."

"The Captain is right," Brenn supported her, a chill in his voice. "Charging headfirst is Corvus's method. He trampled the Great Pact of the Union when he burned Flora's home, while the other eight 'allies' just watched like cowards. The elves hid in their forests, the dwarves in their mountains, and the merchants from Starfox, and the rest, decided it wasn't their war. That's the price of their 'civility.' We won't be like them, we won't charge headfirst, because that's madness. We must act more cautiously. Maybe try to establish contact? Send a negotiator with gifts?"

"With what gifts, Brenn?" Son sneered. "Glass beads and firewater, like the merchants from Starfox do? I'm afraid these fellows will only appreciate the sharpness of our swords."

"Don't underestimate the power of diplomacy, even with savages," old Turville countered. "Sometimes a kind word and a shiny trinket can do more than a hundred warriors. We could leave some gifts on the shore—knives, hatchets, pieces of bright cloth. Show that we come in peace."

Flora pondered this. The idea of gifts was not bad. But what if the natives took it as a sign of weakness?

"We can try," she said finally. "But not now. First, we need to learn more about this island. And its inhabitants. I propose sending a small reconnaissance party. At night. Under the cover of darkness. No noise. The task is to get deep into the island, find their settlement, estimate their numbers, armament, and the presence of fortifications. And, if we're lucky, capture a 'tongue'."

At the word "tongue," Son perked up. "Now that's more like it, Captain! It's been a while since I've loosened the tongues of some particularly stubborn talkers."

Flora shot him a warning glance. "No torture, Son. We need a live and relatively healthy prisoner who can tell us something. If, of course, we can understand his language."

"And who will go on reconnaissance, Captain?" asked Brenn.

"I will," Flora answered without hesitation. "And two or three of the quietest and most agile. Son, you'll go. Your pirate skills will be useful here. And, perhaps, you, Brenn. You have a sharp eye and a cool head."

Brenn raised a surprised eyebrow but nodded. For him, it was an honour.

"And me, Captain?" asked Masefeg. "I can be quiet too when needed."

"You'll stay on the ship, Masefeg," Flora decided. "You are our main strength. If the ship is attacked, you'll be more needed here. Turville, command is yours in our absence."

The old helmsman nodded silently, his face serious.

The plan was accepted. They decided to act the next night, when the moon would be hidden by clouds. Until then—observation and preparation.

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As the sun began to set and the shadows of the cliffs lengthened, covering the bay in twilight, the tension rose again. From the jungle came those strange, drawn-out sounds again, like a howl or a roar. This time they were multiple, as if calling to each other. And in them was a kind of wild, primal anguish.

"What are they doing over there?" asked one of the sailors on deck, shivering. "Singing their songs? Or... or preparing for a hunt?"

"Who knows," Brenn replied, looking grimly at the darkening shore. "But it reminds me of the howl of hungry wolves before an attack."

Flora stood on the quarterdeck, peering into the twilight. She also felt this growing threat. But there was no fear. Only the cold determination and excitement of a hunter tracking a dangerous beast.

She checked her weapon. "Whisper" was honed to a razor's edge. The throwing knives rested comfortably in the secret pockets of her boots.

She was ready. Ready to meet the unknown. Ready for a fight. Ready for whatever this mysterious island at the edge of the world had in store for her.

Night fell quickly, like a dark blanket. The moon was barely visible behind dense clouds. Only the stars twinkled dimly in the gaps. The perfect night for reconnaissance.

Flora, Son, and Brenn gathered on deck by a small, tarred boat that had been lowered into the water—the lightest and quietest of all those on the Sea Wanderer. They were dressed in all dark, their faces smeared with soot. Their weapons were wrapped in cloth to prevent them from clanking.

"Remember," Flora said in a low but firm voice. "Our mission is reconnaissance. Do not engage in combat unless absolutely necessary. Find their village. Assess their strength. If possible, take a 'tongue.' If something goes wrong—retreat to the boat immediately. The signal is the cry of an owl, three times. Understood?"

Son and Brenn nodded silently. Excitement and some nervousness could be read in their eyes.

"Good luck, Captain," said Turville, seeing them off. "And be careful. Very careful."

"We will," Flora replied.

She was the last to get into the boat. Son and Brenn took the oars, which were wrapped in rags for silence. The boat noiselessly detached from the side of the Sea Wanderer and glided over the dark water towards the mysterious, hostile shore.

The whisper of the First Shore had turned into the silent threat of the night. And Flora Disleyvane, the last of the Memory Keepers, was going to meet it.